The subdued rustle of papers. An occasional note of a pen scraping a sheet of cellulose pinned against a hardwood desk. Sometimes a light sigh, or a thoughtful hum. The soundscape of an office busy at work. And overlaid on it all, the harsh beat of the mechanical keyboard.

  Kong, the key pressed down, contacting its holders. Sha—the thin metal arm of the key striker unfolding, joint turning, metal sliding along metal, swinging the typeslug against the corresponding register seal. Chang! A three-sound symphony, repeated, repeated, one strike at times almost in sync with another, at others jarringly conflicting, the established rhythm broken. An incongruent “tok” of the space bar inserted, and then the frequent “dek, dek,” of the delete key.

  “—Can't you do that any more quietly?” Harlow complained to me across the desk rectangle, struggling with the year-end budget reports.

  “Pardon me, but I can't,” I said and kept at it. “If the hit isn't firm enough, the kinetic seal won’t register the input. Suppose we'll have to send feedback to the manufacturer.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Harlow continued to scowl at me over her documents, convinced I was making noise solely to annoy her.

  Then the door opened and the third prince returned from his patrol round.

  “Hey, everyone,” he extended a tad weary greeting. “I just received word from Mr Yanovsky that an order for something called ‘reserve batteries and storage drives’ has arrived at the post office in Grimons. But our gentlemanly courier says, ‘I ain’t touchin’ those devil’s tools,’ and the prefects have been tasked to go pick it up. I'd go by myself, but there might be more than I can hold in my hands. The notice says…200 units of each. Who wants to come with me?”

  “Where’s Harding?” Rosslyn asked.

  “He’s...occupied,” the Prince said and smiled. Whatever kept his pair back was probably not part of his prefect duties. Most likely, “picking up chicks.”

  “I'd love to go,” Lycan said, “but my shift with Rosy is next. We can’t leave the school grounds.”

  “—I’ll go.”

  I closed the projector and stood.

  Giving it thought, it was a good opportunity. I had some questions left, which The Adorium Dynasty couldn’t tell me, and what better information source could there be but a living member of said dynasty? Having a legitimate excuse to talk to his highness spared me the effort of trying to catch him in private.

  “Is that fine?” the prince asked. “Aren’t you busy?”

  “Our colleagues’ ears were in need of a rest, anyway.”

  He grinned in answer.

  “Good. There's a cab already waiting outside. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  The third prince and I went out and to the gate, where indeed an actual cab, a two-wheel hackney carriage stood with a small old man in a top hat on the driver's perch, a long-poled whip in his grip. It was a nostalgic view. It was primarily horsepower that took me to places in the army days. Only a well-trained animal could endure the chaotic tension around me, normally, but with the rings suppressing my magic, even a regular country horse suffered me without an issue.

  The carriage had a shaky, thin-walled cover with doors, painted black. We crammed into the cabin, the third prince on the front side seat and myself opposite, our knees almost hitting together in the lack of space. But it couldn't be avoided.

  “Thanks for coming, Ruthford,” the youth said, wearing a remorseful smile. “I know these components we're picking up are related to the computers, but all that is still pretty strange to me. I wasn't sure I'd be able to handle them right. I did take your aunt’s elective course, but frankly, most of the lectures go way over my head. They say magitech devices are made so that even a non-magician could use them, but I think it’s more intuitive for the wizarding folk.”

  “I'm not really a specialist myself,” I said. “But I can take the blame if we break anything important.”

  He laughed. “I wouldn't make you do that! Truth be told, I've been hoping for an opportunity to get to know you better, Ruthford. You're very different from most other girls I've met. Your performance in the duel the other day was most fascinating, too. I find myself often thinking back to it.”

  I nodded my head. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “Haha, there's no need to be so formal! You can safely forget my status while we're at school and treat me the same as any other guy.” The prince turned a somewhat wistful look outside the cabin window. “To be perfectly honest, I wish for nothing more but that I wasn't a member of royalty.”

  “Hm. I've heard the King has high expectations for his children.”

  “I wonder about that. I don’t believe my father expects much anything from me. Other than that I stay out of trouble and don't bring shame to our name. It's mostly the expectations of my elder siblings that concern me.”

  “How so? Has any of them threatened you?”

  The third prince looked startled and hurried to wave his hand.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Oh no! No, no, not at all. I didn't mean it like that. All of us in our family get along great with each other. I love every one of them. It's just that…Well, some of us are still looking for our proper places. How we can best serve our country and help one another.”

  Realizing his carelessness, he retreated behind rehearsed, politically correct responses.

  It seemed I pushed a bit too fast.

  “I jumped to conclusions,” I said and nodded. “Sorry about that. People love to speculate over the line of succession, and an unlikely candidate winning the race would be the most exciting outcome. Though that’s only a perspective possible for unrelated outsiders. It can't be much fun for those personally involved.”

  “Yes, it's still much too early to speak of succession. My father is stronger than he’s ever been, and certain to live a long life. Which ever of my brothers rises to the throne after him, it likely has little to do with me. And thank God for that.”

  He sat back, a weight of finality in his tone. Talks of succession clearly didn't please him, and he had learned to put up his guard if anyone probed into his personal ambitions. But whether he wanted to be King or didn't, I didn't particularly care.

  It didn't seem credible to me that the third prince had sent the assassin after Emily either. He had shown no sign he even knew the girl, though they were both in the same school. They could have passed each other in the hallways, or in the cafeteria, and he would surely have tried to get closer to her by now, if he had anything against her.

  Sure, he could simply be a cunning actor and I misjudged him. But no matter how I tried, I could only see Leander as an ordinary young man, who dreaded responsibility, avoided confrontation, and dreamed of a carefree life.

  I changed the subject.

  “Apologies in advance, but may I ask a private sort of question?”

  He frowned at my wording, wary. “What is it?”

  “Could you tell me a bit about Princess Lauriel?”

  “Lauriel...?”

  “Yes. I've admired her highness for a long time, though she seems to avoid public eye. I recently learned she was inspired to study swordsmanship by my adoptive mother, General Ruthford.”

  The prince looked surprised.

  “Really? Who told you that? Even I didn't know.”

  “Someone from the court, who visited us last summer. Could be that it was only empty flattery, but I think it would be lovely if it were true. I'd appreciate anything you could tell me about her highness.”

  The third prince relaxed a little, though he didn't look happy.

  “Older sister Lauriel…” he pronounced and sighed. “She has always been kind to me, but to be brutally honest, Lauriel is a bit—well, cracked. I always have a hard time telling what she’s thinking at any given moment, if anything at all. None of our siblings take her very seriously. Not even Lavinia or Colleen, who know her best. No knowledge seems to stick to her head, to the endless frustration of our parents and tutors. Our Anya beats her at chess even with a handicap of four pieces. Lauriel was engaged to marry some years back, like her sisters, but after one conversation with her face to face, the fiance broke it off. She gave up on her titles, passed up on going to the academy, and at seventeen, suddenly decided she wanted to be a guard. Just a guard. But the Kingsguard has high standards, and she's not doing very well there either. She trains practically every hour of the day when not on duty, like she's trying to kill herself swinging a blade. And yet, has nothing to show for it, even after all these years.”

  “That’s…harsh.”

  She did give off a sort of blank impression, but to that extent?

  The third prince continued,

  “In the Guard, Lauriel currently holds the record of 500 lost sparring matches, with not one victory. She can't even beat me in a mock fight, though I'm only a second-year apprentice. Lord D’Arnos, the Guard commander, says he's never met a fencer as hopeless as Lauriel in all his years. The only reason she still has a job is because father pities her, I suppose. What else would she do, if she didn’t have that? Embroidery?”

  He snorted cynically at his own words, but his gaze was pained.

  “I just…wish she were normal. Why push herself so hard, when she doesn’t even need to? She could just live in peace and do whatever makes her actually happy. Because, clearly, the sword is not it. I can’t recall having ever seen my sister smile.”

  True enough, Lauriel had no smiles to spare for us either during our visit.

  But I didn't get the feeling she was particularly suffering either.

  Neither happy nor in pain. A stranger to joys and sorrows. Detached.

  Empty, bereft of passion. That was the word always topmost on my mind when I attempted to describe how the princess appeared to me. But that didn't become a real answer to anything. And when the solution eluded me, it only got me more curious, as a mage, as a scientist.

  Our cab rolled downhill and to the town. Already from the distance, I noticed the locals busily setting up wooden poles along the sides of the streets. On top of each pole was a short cross beam, on which the folk hung loose coils of hop with rust-red and purple leaves, and small paper lanterns. Between the standing beams others tied drooping strings that brightly colored paper strips decorated.

  I watched their outward mysterious activities with a frown through the cab window.

  Looking closer, there was a lot of odd clutter set up around that I never noticed before; great pumpkins and turnips with crude faces carved into them, and straw figures of men and goats at street corners and outside every store door.

  “Is there some kind of event coming?” I asked.

  “Oh, it's the harvest festival,” the third prince said. “It's always on the last weekend of October.”

  “Harvest festival? Some kind of local tradition?”

  The young man's smile wavered.

  “No, it's everywhere. In every city, town and village. Don't tell me you’ve never seen it before?”

  “I…come from a very remote place. Does that mean they’ll have a festival at the capital too?”

  “Oh yes, of course. It's a really big one too. Farmers and producers from every nearby region will come to Canelon to trade freshly harvested goods that weekend. There'll be food and music and dance and drinking going on everywhere. Every hotel will be full, and the streets will be flooded with light and people. It's one of my favorite times of the year, really. Which I'll miss almost every year, because of one trivial ceremony or another that I absolutely have to attend.”

  “I see…”

  There it hit me.

  That was it. That was when they were going to strike. The Tarachians. At the festival.

  There could be no better opportunity. Mingling among the crowds pouring in from all over the country. If a horde of hellions and foreign commandos struck during the event, the damages were going to be catastrophic. And I knew then I had to be there.